Rules of Engagement
by avocadomoon
Summary: Summer looks a little sympathetic, but she's smirking, so it can't be running all that deeply. "It's gonna look bad - you not wanting to help with your stepsister's wedding." / "She's also my ex," Ryan says. "And she was my ex before she was my stepsister, so I think that should be the definition we lead with."
1. Chapter 1

Summer's new car is a clunker, which Ryan had warned her about, but Summer has a habit of doing the exact opposite of what you tell her to do when it comes to practical things like cars and apartments and not getting arrested for organizing protests without a license. He's tried reverse psychology a few times, but she sees right through that, of course. She's surprisingly susceptible to bullshit when it's coming from a stranger, but when it's Ryan running his mouth - she's made of fucking Teflon.

"I swear they told me it was fine for another month," Summer says, not even waiting for him to get all the way out of his car. Her piece of shit Honda is halfway onto the grass of the median, the hood already propped open - though what she thought she was gonna do with it, Ryan doesn't know. "I had it checked last weekend - remember? The guy _promised_ me that I could make until June to get it replaced - and it started up fine!"

"I keep _telling_ you, it's your alternator," Ryan says, waving her back, off the actual road. "Stay back, would you? That's a blind corner."

Summer rolls her eyes, but does what he says. "He said I just needed a new battery."

"Did he _check_ the alternator?"

"I mean," Summer says, throwing her hands out, "I kind of assumed he did, but what the hell do I know? Careful!" She stops him, before he touches the hood prop. "The thingy on top is broken, it'll slam shut on you if you're not careful."

"Jesus. This thing is a freakin' death trap," Ryan mutters, eyeing the hood warily as he leans over the engine. He huffs. "Look. Your alternator is this thing," he yanks Summer over by her sleeve, making her look. "It's a generator that charges the battery. If it's bad, then it will cause the battery to drain much faster than normal, which is why you already need a new one."

"It's been two years," Summer protests.

"Batteries are supposed to last longer than that," Ryan insists, rolling his eyes. He yanks them both out of the way of the hood, and carefully unhooks the prop - she's right, the thingy _is_ broken - and lets the hood fall shut. "Plus, you said your lights flicker - that's not the battery, Summer."

"Well then why didn't the guy tell me that?" Summer demands.

"Maybe he was too busy staring at your _assets_," Ryan replies. Summer makes an offended noise, crossing her arms across her chest. "Hey, you're the one who tries to flirt her way into free car repairs. It's not like you couldn't just, oh I dunno, take me up on one of my _millions_ of offers to help - "

"You would charge me," Summer says, her mouth pulling into a pout. Ryan shrugs, unrepentant. "This one seemed genuine. He told me he worked on one of Che's campaigns last year, and he seemed really excited about the electric car movement!"

Ryan looks pointedly at the dozens of bumper stickers plastered all over the back end of Summer's car. "I'm sure he did."

She huffs. "Are you going to give me a ride or not?"

"Of course." Summer shoots him a glare, and another huff, and stomps over to the passenger side door to grab her stuff. "Come on, don't be mad," Ryan says, grinning. "I brought you some lunch."

"What kind of lunch?" Summer asks, pulling her overflowing backpack out with a grunt. "I'm not eating any of your gross bar food, Ryan."

"Nah, I stopped by that taco truck by the park," Ryan says. Summer's scowl drops away instantly. "I was on my way already when you called. I got you carne asada."

"I love you," Summer says solemnly, and practically skips down the side of the road to his car.

"Hey!" Ryan calls after her. "You know we have to wait for a tow truck, right?"

"Duh," Summer calls back, already climbing into the cab of his truck. "Didn't you call already?"

Ryan sighs, grumbling to himself as he digs his cell phone out of his back pocket. Typical.

Summer's car has helpfully broken down on a fairly boring street, with little traffic to speak of - although they do get some strange looks from the skateboarders that pass by on the sidewalk opposite. Summer doesn't seem to notice - sitting cross-legged in the bed of Ryan's pickup, devouring her food like she hasn't eaten in months. Which is how she always eats - Ryan's almost used to it.

They've been friends for years, at this point, though Ryan can't say exactly when it became an intimate friendship - the kind that works its way under your skin, and digs in roots. Maybe it's because they've known each other so long - that easy familiarity that comes from watching someone grow up and date losers and fuck up royally over and over - but isn't that how it works with everything? Just opportunity and effort. That's all it is.

"Thanks again," Summer says, through a mouthful of steak. "I was gonna call you anyway, you know. Good timing."

Ryan's reclining back against the side of the bed, having already eaten. It's his day off, believe it or not - his front of house manager is running the floor tonight, and two of his best bartenders are on shift. He truly has nothing to worry about, for the rest of the day. "Oh yeah?"

"Coop called me." Summer sets her food aside, her face sobering. Ryan opens one eye, his shoulders tensing. "She's getting married."

Ryan bursts out laughing.

"Shut up! I'm serious," Summer protests, reaching over and shoving at his leg. She's smiling, though. "She really means it this time! I think."

"Implying she didn't mean it the other times?"

Summer shrugs, letting the question bounce off and away, like a pebble glancing off the side of a windshield. "You remember the girl from Christmas."

As if anyone could forget. Everything Marissa does becomes a spectacle, one way or another. Julie and Frank had done a cute takeout dinner thing - Christmas Eve with boxes and bags of In 'n Out and KFC, Starbucks hot chocolate in big cardboard carafes, and Dunkin' Donuts for dessert. Marissa had spent the entire evening on her phone, before speeding off in a powder blue Mazda with a girl who honked her horn so loud it woke the baby up. Julie spent the rest of the night in her room, while Kaitlin, Ryan, and Summer tried to cheer Frank up by kicking his ass at Monopoly.

"Cara?" he asks. "Or Kayla?"

"Carina," Summer says. "Cara was her roommate in Seattle."

"Right." Ryan tilts his head back towards the sun and wishes for a cigarette. "Well, I guess that's nice. She seemed nice. Sort of."

"She's gonna tell Julie and Frank today," Summer continues, crumpling up her now-empty paper plate, smashing it into a ball with the tin foil. "Jimmy already knows, I guess he's gonna pay for it. They wanna have the ceremony here in Newport."

"Great," Ryan mutters. "She can't use the bar."

"She's gonna ask to use the bar."

"Well she can ask and I'm gonna say no," Ryan says sourly, pushing his sunglasses back up his nose with a frustrated shake of his head.

Summer looks a little sympathetic, but she's smirking, so it can't be running all that deeply. "It's gonna look bad - you not wanting to help with your stepsister's wedding."

"She's also my _ex,_" Ryan says. "And she was my ex before she was my stepsister, so I think that should be the definition we lead with."

"Nobody remembers that. All they remember now is how cute little Jamie Atwood was at the Annual Ocean Reef Charity Auction last year."

An exceedingly adorable six-year-old, Jamie had unfortunately been the hit of the party. He'd been the unofficial usher, and by the end of the night half of Newport Beach wanted to adopt him. Julie was not above leveraging that for donations, which Frank pretended to be mad about right up until he wanted extra breadsticks from the grandmother who ran the register at Sarpino's. The kid was like a walking, talking (well - more like running and rambling) master key.

"She still can't use the bar," Ryan says firmly. A reception...maybe. But Marissa will want it for a bachelorette party, or something similar. He shudders a little, just thinking about it.

Summer just shrugs. "Anyway, I wanted to warn you. Julie will probably get weird; I wanted you to have advance warning."

"I appreciate it." Ryan's relationship with his stepmother has evened out into an affectionately annoying friendship, but every once in awhile - mostly when Marissa visits - they fall back into old habits. "They probably won't even want me around for it. That last fiance hated me."

"That guy was a dick, though, he hated everybody," Summer says.

Marissa's had three fiances over the past six years (make that four, now), and none of them were exactly nice. The only one that Ryan could have lived with was the boyfriend from Hawaii - relatively down to earth, a career waiter and amateur boxer, probably could have been a friend if he hadn't been insanely jealous of Ryan and Marissa's history. But it seems like the girlfriends and boyfriends have only gotten more unbearable since then - Marissa seems to always find very specific _characters_ to fall in love with: snobby models, trust fund club owners, Hollywood publicists, bisexual art critics. Ryan doesn't remember much about this one - Carina with the blue Mazda - but he's pretty sure it'll be another variation on the theme.

Not that Ryan has room to talk, with his parade of married and/or criminally-inclined girlfriends. Summer, on the other hand, never dates at all. The last time Ryan heard her mention the 'b' word was six years ago, when she and Che tried to make an actual go of it. After a melodramatic breakup involving some sort of drawn out argument about a girl at PETA with blue hair (Summer didn't share any of the sordid details), they settled into a very weird professional friendship, and Summer hasn't dated anyone seriously since.

For awhile Ryan thought she was hung up on him - Che or Seth, or maybe both. But now he's pretty sure she's just comfortable like this - single, supporting herself, adopting as many pets as she wants and not having to explain it to anybody. He's kind of proud of her, actually.

"Did she ask you to be a bridesmaid?"

"No," Summer says, sort of wistfully. "I mean, we talk maybe three or four times a year. I'm not exactly a maid of honor friend, anymore."

Ryan angles his knee to press it against her leg. She smiles sadly, picking at her nails, like she does when she's upset or anxious. Ryan frowns, squashing the urge to pull her hand away and make her stop.

"Anyway, I just thought I should warn you," Summer says. "She seemed really...chirpy, on the phone. She was talking about inviting a bunch of people, doing the whole thing. I think she's really, actually in love this time," she muses, tilting her head curiously. "Huh."

"Good for her," Ryan says genuinely. It's been long enough now that he really means it, this time. "And she can invite whoever she wants, I guess."

"Even the Cohens?" Summer asks, arching an eyebrow. "_Seth_ Cohen, to be specific?"

"We're adults now, it's no big deal," Ryan says, the words sounding unconvincing even to his own ears. He sits up a little straighter. "Oh hey, I think I hear the tow."

"Uh huh," Summer says flatly. "You're a big grown something, alright."

He makes a face at her. "I'm serious - see?" He points at the tow truck, rounding the corner at the opposite end of the street.

"How magical! Just in time to allow you to avoid an actual conversation about this - _again_," Summer says, through gritted teeth.

"I'll take it up with my therapist," Ryan shoots back, nudging her again with his knee. Summer grumbles as she crawls out of the truck bed, scowling at him over her shoulder. "Thanks for warning me, though. Seriously."

Summer huffs. "As if I wouldn't?"

Ryan just smiles, pulling gently on the end of her ponytail as he brushes past. He knows he can count on her by now, of course. It's just that he tries not to take these things for granted.

* * *

Julie, Jamie and Frank live in a condo that Kait likes to call "the relative house." Relative, because depending on which former living situation you compare it to, it's either much nicer, or much crappier. Much better than the trailer, but a few steps down from the cushy mansions with infinity pools and a staff of cooks and gardeners.

One of the things they did, when they first got married, was institute an emergency rule - meaning that anyone could call a stepfamily meeting (pseudo-family, was Kait's name for it in the beginning), at any time, any length of notice, and attendance was mandatory. Julie made many heroic attempts to include Marissa in this at first, even when she was living in Maui with Jimmy, but despite the advent of Skype and Facetime, she still never showed up - not even when she _was_ in town. At this point, Ryan thinks Julie's mostly given up, and counts herself lucky when Marissa bothers to show up for holidays.

But over the years, the emergency rule has turned into a sort of running joke - mostly on behalf of Kaitlin and Frank, who think it's absolutely hilarious to cry wolf once or twice a month. In the past six years, Ryan has attended emergency meetings for: hangnails, abrupt cancellations of TV shows, the tragic discontinuation of crispy M&Ms in the United States, and several dozen bad hair days. He thinks it's a rather touching testament to their commitment to making this work that everyone still shows up every time the group text activates, even though they all know they're going to end up talking about Frank's heartburn, or something.

It's for this reason that Kaitlin usually shows up with booze. They've been running a poker tournament over the past four or five emergencies, and Kait's go-to tactic is to get everybody else tipsy enough that she's got a chance at actually winning.

"Get ready to lose your pennies, bitches," Kaitlin says, a grocery wine-bag hanging from one shoulder. She stops short at the opening to the living room, her face falling at the scene before her. "Oh. Oh shit, don't tell me this is a _real_ emergency."

"'Fraid so," Frank says, as Julie rises to her feet, her head already shaking. Ryan covers a laugh with a cough.

"No, not technically - relax, sweetie, it's nothing life or death," she says, shooting Ryan a dirty look, and rushing over to slide the bag off of Kait's shoulder. "It's good, actually! Well, we hope."

Kaitlin eyes her warily, taking the seat next to Jamie, who is blithely ignoring all of them in favor of his Wii U. "Oh, _God,_ is Marissa getting married again?"

Ryan doesn't bother to cover his laugh this time. "How did you know?" Julie demands.

"Wild guess," Kait says, catching Ryan's eye and making a face. "The chef girl?"

"Wait, she's a chef?" Frank asks. He stops watching the game over Jamie's shoulder and looks up, his interest piqued. "I didn't know that."

"Oh, I told you that," Julie says. "She works at Cal Mare - that nice seafood place in Beverly Grove."

"Mom, you are literally the only person here who cares what snooty restaurant she works at," Kaitlin says, with a pronounced eye roll. "She told all of you first?! Before she told me?"

"No, she told Summer," Ryan says significantly.

"Oh," Kait says. She looks somewhat mollified. "So...you called an emergency to help you, what, plan the party?"

"No." Julie sits stiffly on the couch on the opposite side of Jamie, her chin angled up so high she's practically looking at the ceiling. "She doesn't want my help."

Kaitlin goes quiet, making eye contact with Ryan again. Her eyebrows shoot to the top of her forehead.

"They hired a wedding planner, so they've got it under control," Frank says soothingly, ever the diplomat. He reaches over Jamie's head and slides one palm against the back of Julie's shoulder. She relaxes, minutely - enough to lean back against the couch and smile down at Jamie, who's put his game down in response to the tension. "She called it to give you guys a heads up - well, to give _you_ a heads up, Kait. Your dad's gonna be around quite a bit. We thought you'd like some advance warning."

This time, it's Kaitlin who goes rigid straight. "Great," she spits.

"He'll probably be pretty busy," Ryan says - an attempt at comfort. "You won't have to see him much if you don't want to."

Kaitlin just shakes her head. "Well, that's stupid - it's a small town, Ryan. What am I supposed to do - not leave the house for a month until he's gone?" She scoffs. "I run into three different people I know, _minimum,_ every time I leave my apartment."

"Maybe that's because you still hang out at the same places you did when you were seventeen," Ryan says jokingly, nudging her shoulder. Kaitlin's answering smile is pretty weak - but at least it's there.

"I know it's going to be difficult, honey," Julie says gently. "But it's Marissa's wedding. We can't banish him from the town limits."

"I mean, you could _try,_" Kaitlin says, sulkily. "If anyone could pull it off, it'd probably be you."

Julie smiles a little bashfully, clearly taking that as a compliment. "Well," she says, "it'd be _wrong_, is my point."

"Plus, I think this one might actually take," Frank says cheerfully. "She sounded downright giddy on the phone. More than giddy - maybe even _tickled._"

Jamie giggles. "Dad, that's not what that means."

"What are you talking about, of course that's what it means," Frank says, reaching out to tickle Jamie's rib cage. He collapses into more giggles, wiggling away to hide in Julie's lap. "What are they teaching you at school anyway? Words can have more than one meaning, you know. Jeez."

"It's another word for happy, baby," Julie says, pulling Jamie sideways into her lap. She throws a mock glare at Frank. "Don't even think about it."

Frank retreats, holding up his hands. "Wouldn't dream of it, honey."

"Here's a secret about Frankie, little bro," Kaitlin says, leaning over onto her elbows to grin at Jamie. The little boy peeks out from beneath Julie's arm, still grinning. "He talks like he's from the 1930s sometimes. Nobody uses 'tickled' anymore to mean anything but…" she stretches the word out playfully, then darts one hand out and grabs Jamie's foot. She barely even makes contact before he yanks it away, breathless with laughter.

"No, no!" Jamie says, curling up into a ball against Julie, who rolls her eyes, long suffering.

"If anyone comes _near_ me while this child is leaning against my stomach, I'm going to murder you," she threatens at-large. Kaitlin just laughs, scooting back into her seat.

"He's deadly with those elbows," Ryan says, grinning. He leans forward, holding out one hand. "C'mere, kiddo. Give your mom a break."

Jamie rolls off Julie's lap without preamble - elbowing her in the process, of course. She groans out loud, making Kaitlin and Frank laugh again, as Jamie scrambles over into Ryan's lap instead, doing his best to cause as many bruises on his way up as possible.

Ryan grins and bears it, folding the gangly kid into something vaguely resembling a comfortable position. Jamie rewards him by lurching back against his chest, knocking the back of his head against Ryan's chin. He used to do the same thing when he was a baby - these sudden, violent lunges, sometimes tipping himself right out of somebody's arms and onto the floor. It's a miracle the kid made it through his toddler years without a concussion.

"You're almost too big for this, you know," Ryan says, rubbing his jaw with a wince. Jamie just shrugs, hitching his legs up on the side of the chair. "Frankie, look at this kid. He's all legs. Something's wrong with him."

"We should put a brick on his head at night, see if that stops the growing," Frank says.

"That's stupid," Jamie announces. He's almost horizontal, his feet up on the side of the chair and his head tipped backwards, surveying the room upside down. "Mom, can I show Ryan my new game now?"

"In a minute," Julie says, smiling fondly. "When we're done talking."

"You're not _done?_" Jamie says, and sighs, loud and long-suffering.

Kaitlin snorts. "Right there with ya, Jamie." She looks longingly at the wine, abandoned on the coffee table. "Can we still play poker?"

"In a minute," Julie repeats, smiling beatifically and making her voice mockingly baby-ish. "When we're done talking."

Kaitlin rolls her eyes again.

"We had an idea about how to make it easier, that's all," Frank says, suppressed laughter making his voice tight. "Since Marissa and Jimmy will be around quite a bit, we'll have to get used to it - at least for awhile. So your mom and I thought - maybe we could have them over for dinner?" He holds up a hand, cutting off Kaitlin's automatic protest. "To rip off the band-aid, Kait! We're going to have to do it eventually - we might as well get it out of the way as soon as we can, so we can start pretending we all like each other."

"And think of it this way," Julie says brightly, "Marissa can bring Carina, and we can all get to know her a little. She's going to be your sister-in-law, after all." She moves a little closer to Frank on the couch - the two of them clearly a united front, having planned this out beforehand. "I know it'll be awkward - I know. But it doesn't have to be! The first step towards fixing it is just to...deal with it." Julie ends her little speech with a shrug, sounding shockingly laid back.

"Do I have to come?" Ryan asks.

"Yes," Julie says firmly, her smile not even wavering.

"Do _I_ have to come?" Jamie repeats, still upside down.

"_Yes,_" comes the reply, this time from both Frank and Julie at the same time.

"Do I - " starts Kaitlin, but is cut off by a pillow sent flying at her face by Frank. She sputters indignantly.

"We're all coming," Julie says firmly, clasping her hands. Like she's shaking on her own deal, with herself. "I'll get catering from Del Vecchio's, we'll set up the table in the backyard. We'll light some candles, drink some wine, and spend some quality time together as a family, and you're all gonna shut up about it, starting _now_." She smiles. "Capiche?"

After a halfhearted chorus of okays and fines from the assembled, Julie looks satisfied, shooting a grin over at Frank. "Good," he says, smiling back hopefully. "It'll be good - you'll see."

"Every time someone says that," Ryan points out, grunting as Jamie digs his shoulder blades into his chest, "somebody else gets pushed into a pool at the party."

"Well it's a good thing we're too poor for pools now," Julie says cheerfully. "So, Kait. You said something about poker?"

* * *

Ryan likes hanging out with Jamie. He reminds Ryan painfully of Marissa sometimes - he's got that same wide face, and his hair is closer to Marissa's golden blonde than the Atwood dishwater - but he's an earnest kid, with a lot of energy, and he looks up to Ryan immensely, for reasons beyond his comprehension. Being an older brother is actually a lot easier than he'd thought it be, back when Julie and Frank first declared that they were both hitched _and_ knocked up, all in the same weekend.

Mostly, he just lets Jamie talk, and even when Ryan doesn't always follow the ins and outs, he still acts like he's interested and listening. For this, Jamie adores him. Sometimes, it really is that easy.

After tipsy poker (Jamie's drink of choice being hot chocolate - as effective on him as the wine was on everyone else) and a few dozen rounds of Slapjack, Jamie conks out right there in Ryan's lap, snoring loudly with his head wedged beneath Ryan's arm and the arm of the chair. It takes Ryan and Frank both to extract him from the pretzel he's wound himself into, and Ryan carries him up to his bedroom, trying not to laugh too loudly at the ridiculous snoring noises he makes the entire way.

"Jesus," Frank says, following him down the hallway, close to tears himself. "It's like a cartoon."

As if on cue, Jamie makes a loud snort in his sleep, so loud and violent that he follows it up with a comical choking noise. Then he settles back down against Ryan's shoulder, still dead asleep. Ryan has to pause, leaning against the wall, laughing so hard he almost drops the poor kid.

They manage to get him into the bed eventually, where Jamie immediately curls himself around his stuffed raccoon and - of course - stops snoring.

"It's like he knows when he's got an audience," Ryan says, resting for a second at the foot of the little bed. He's not sure Frank was kidding about the brick - seems like every time Ryan visits, Jamie is at least half an inch taller. Julie definitely can't pick him up anymore, and even Ryan has trouble nowadays, especially after two glasses of wine.

Frank runs an affectionate hand over Jamie's head, pulling the lightest sheet up over his shoulders. The room is a bit warmer than the rest of the house, since it's the highest bedroom - but Jamie's always ran cold, anyway. "You're telling me." He claps Ryan on the shoulder. "Come on. Let's hit the attic - give the girls some time to talk."

Ryan nods, following Frank silently out of the room. As they pass the stairs, sure enough - they hear the low tones of Julie's voice, saying something soothing and motherly that Ryan doesn't try to listen to too closely. Frank shakes his head as they climb the stairs up to the attic, waiting to comment until the door is shut behind them.

"Hell of a guy, that Jimmy Cooper," he says with disgust. He wouldn't say something like that around anyone but Ryan. "I knew she was more upset than she let on."

"She'll be okay," Ryan says confidently. Kaitlin is always okay - the healthiest out of all of them, if he's being honest. Her relationship with Jimmy is a bitter, complicated thing, but Marissa and Julie's isn't much better. Sometimes, he wonders if this is just what happens, when people get divorced: you split up your kids, too. It was the same way with Frank and Dawn, once upon a time. "You got something to drink up here, old man?"

"Hold your horses," Frank grumbles. The attic is, technically speaking, Frank's gun room, but in practice it's become more like a second, adults-only living room. Apart from the BB rifles and ancient shotguns locked up on the walls, it could pass as a teenager's clubhouse - mini fridge of booze, cheap rug, bean bag chairs, the whole nine yards. Ryan's never seen Julie up here, but the record player and her carefully organized crates of vinyls are evidence of her presence. And in the corner is Kaitlin's old guitar - still used, from time to time, when the mood strikes.

Ryan leans back into the musty, familiar futon and cracks open the beer Frank hands him. Maybe one day, he'll have an attic like this - full of his family's odds and ends. The thought isn't as terrifying as it used to be.

"So," he says, after a moment, "you doing okay with all this?"

"I'm really not hung up on Marissa, you know," Ryan says.

"I know, I know," Frank says, dragging a lawn chair over and ease himself into. By silent agreement, neither of them ever sit in the bean bag chairs. "But still."

Ryan is quiet for a moment, giving the question the attention it's due. "It'll be harder on them," he says finally. "Summer was kind of upset, I could tell."

"They had sort of a falling out last summer, didn't they?"

"More like a fading out," Ryan says. Summer won't admit it out loud, but she'd taken it hard - the long, mundane drift of her friendship with Marissa. That seemed to Ryan to be almost worse than his own awkward, abrupt end, or the way Kaitlin and Marissa would go years without speaking and then snap back into being sisters again, closer than twins, without any preamble or build up. "I think they were actually closer, when Marissa was in Seattle. They talked a lot more, that's for sure. She was expecting it to be the same when Marissa moved back to LA."

Frank shakes his head. "That girl," he says, letting the end of the sentence trail off. He'd never dare to say it out loud, but Frank disapproves of pretty much everything Marissa does - mostly because of its effect on Julie. When Ryan and Marissa had broken up for good - right around the time Julie and Frank were sneaking around, falling in love right beneath everyone's noses - he actually came close to saying it, but always stopped himself at that last second, biting the words back, like he knew how much he didn't have the right. "You think we should invite her? To the dinner thing? She might make it go more smoothly."

"She won't come," Ryan says, with conviction. Summer flat out refuses to attend family stuff with the Atwood-Coopers, for reasons she's never been willing to explain. "It's a nice thought, though."

"Sure," Frank says, eyeing Ryan weirdly. "You know…"

"What?"

Frank seems to think better of whatever he was about to say. "Nothing."

"Oh come on. What?"

"Nothing," Frank repeats, with a small laugh, pushing back in his chair. The window's propped open, to let some of the night breeze in, but it's still a bit muggy up here, and Frank's forehead is shiny with sweat. Ryan's sure he doesn't look much better. "I was just gonna ask about the Cohens, is all. You know they'll be invited."

Ryan sighs. "It's a long trip from Berkeley, just for a wedding of someone they're not all that close with anymore."

"They'll come," Frank says quietly. "They'll come to see you, and you know it."

Ryan scowls down at the ground, unwilling to let himself react beyond that. "Dad."

"Fine." Frank laughs again, easily. It's not a mocking sound, though. More like a gentle teasing. Ryan's muscles unwind a little, despite himself. "Like we said, son. You're gonna have to deal with it eventually."

"Well, this particular cut, I'm gonna take the band-aid off slowly, thanks," Ryan says wryly.

"Fair enough," says Frank. He glances out the window, not having taken more than one or two sips of his drink. Ryan can tell, just by looking at him, that he's not done with his list of tricky conversation topics. And sure enough: "your brother used to fart in his sleep."

Ryan almost chokes. "What?"

"Oh yeah. You don't remember? Used to stink up the whole room. We had air fresheners in every corner of the house."

"No," Ryan says slowly, lowering his beer can to the ground. "I guess he grew out of that, by the time I was old enough to remember."

"I guess," Frank says, sounding wistful. He makes eye contact with Ryan, his jaw set. "You been to see him lately?"

Ryan stiffens. "You know I haven't."

"I'm going this weekend," Frank says. He holds up one hand, as if sensing the tension rising in Ryan's shoulders. "I'm not saying anything, one way or another. I'm just saying, I'm going, and you can ride along with me, if you want."

"Jesus, Dad," Ryan says, on an uneasy exhale. "You can't text this shit to me like a normal person? You gotta look me in the eye while you're saying it like some kind of...emotionally healthy weirdo?"

"It's the therapy," Frank jokes weakly. "Gives you all these bad habits."

Ryan taps his fingers against the side of his knee restlessly. Outside the window, he can hear the back door open and closing, and the soft sound of footsteps on the cement patio. Kait dipping out for a smoke, probably.

They probably planned this in advance too, the psychos. Mom downstairs, Dad upstairs. Sitting down the kids, making them talk about their fucking feelings. Divide and conquer.

"I haven't been since," Ryan says, his throat closing up before he can finish the sentence. "Okay. Yeah. Okay."

"You don't have to," Frank says, looking like he regrets this as much as Ryan does. "I was just offering. I don't mean to push."

"Marissa's coming back to town," Ryan says, taking a deep breath. "The Cohens. Seth will probably show up at some point to dig up all the ugly shit, too. Maybe Theresa will swing by with Daniel and Eddie, just to round it all out, make it a complete set." He laughs, without humor. "None of that will seem as terrifying if I do this first, right? Is that the idea?"

"Sort of," Frank says quietly. He fusses with his sleeve cuffs, avoids Ryan's eyes. "Mostly I just...thought it'd be nice to go together."

Ryan shakes his head, helpless in the face of _that._ Evil geniuses, both of them. They really are made for each other.

"Anything else you wanna talk about?" Ryan asks dryly. "Mom? Prison? The inevitability of death?"

"Nah, I'm good," Frank says, a little wobbily. But he grins in the next second, playful as always. "How's the glamorous life of a bar-owner?"

"Great," Ryan says flatly. "Last weekend I had to call an ambulance because a twenty-two year old OD'd in my bathroom."

"Well, at least she was of age," Frank says.

* * *

The original owner of The Bait Shop was an investment banker from Los Angeles who was arrested in early 2006 for possession of an unregistered firearm, among a few other things left out of the papers. After his arrest, he sold most of his properties in order to pay legal fees (and, as came out later, a one-way ticket to an undisclosed, non-extradition country), and it languished on the dismal real estate market for a few years, its chances tanked even more by the earthquake damage it suffered in early 2007. Then in 2009, a block of luxury condos was built on the same street, and the neighborhood was rezoned, effectively killing the chance of ever turning the building into a working music venue again. Still, it was remarketed as a potential restaurant or office, and it had a few bids here and there - once even from the Newport Group - but the struggling tourism market and the eternally skyrocketing living expenses were hard deterrents. Ultimately, it sat empty and fell into semi-disrepair until May of 2011, when it was finally purchased for about a quarter of its original asking price.

And that was how Ryan Atwood came to own Newport's seediest (by comparison) bar.

Ryan doesn't sleep with employees, which is a hard line he's never wavered from. He's only been tempted once, by a woman he hired on as a bartender, back in the first year. Her name was Isobel but everyone called her Iz, and she had beautiful, long black hair, all the way down to her waist. She'd wear shorts to work sometimes, and when she pulled her hair out of its braid, it would cover her entire back, and make her look like she wasn't wearing anything at all.

She also flirted with Ryan shamelessly, laughing at his increasingly strained rejections, right up until she no showed for two shifts in a row and he had to fire her. Two weeks later, he found out that she'd actually been hired on at the Crab Shack as one of their bar managers, and had taken the easy way out of two weeks' notice. Ditching him for the _competition_ \- Ryan took it a little personally. To this day, he's forbidden everyone he knows from eating there - although he's sure Summer sneaks over from time to time. She loves their lobster rolls too much to ever give them up completely, even for him.

Since then, his staff has been thankfully unremarkable - personally speaking, anyway. His current floor manager is a chirpy blonde named Leah, and Ryan likes her a lot - but he wouldn't say they're friends, by any stretch of the definition. She's way too cheerful for him.

"Hey boss!" His point exactly. "Did you have a good day off?"

Ryan grimaces in lieu of actually responding, pulling his sunglasses off and tossing them on the desk.

"Yikes." Leah leans against the edge of his desk, frowning sympathetically. "Well, tonight should be easy, at least. Here's the updated P&L you wanted." She hands him a file folder of meticulously-organized paperwork. Ryan flips it open, skimming the numbers quickly. "And, let's see - that Brian kid called out again, he said he's still got the flu, but who even knows. I left messages for everybody who's available but nobody's called me back yet, so we might have to shut down the balcony early - I've only got one barback, and Elijah's already going to double up tonight to help with tables."

"It's Thursday," Ryan says with a shrug. "Just don't open it at all. Keep everybody on the floor - we shouldn't be too busy." He sinks down into his chair with a tired sigh. "What else?"

"Uh, called the cops twice last night," Leah says, flipping open the little planner she uses to take notes. "Some guy was making racist jokes, another customer complained, and when Elijah asked him to leave he got physical. I emailed you a copy of that police report. And the second one was just that homeless guy again, the one who exposed himself to Maritza and Abby? I called as soon as I saw him, but he bolted before the cops got here. One of them left a card, though." She hands over a business card for the Orange County Sheriff's Office, which Ryan immediately puts with his collection of all the other cop business cards he's been handed. "No other trouble, other than the usual small stuff. We ran out of limes again, but Maritza's gonna pick up more on her way in."

"What the hell is going on with that?" Ryan asks. "We're still ordering the same amount as we always have. Is there a new fad, or something?"

Leah shrugs. "I asked around, but none of the bartenders have noticed a sudden demand for a particular drink or anything. Maybe it's the weather?" she guesses. "Oh - and someone keeps prank calling the main phone line."

Ryan looks up from the P&L, one eyebrow raised. "Prank calling?"

Leah makes a face. "Yeah, you know, like calling and then hanging up, as soon as we pick up? All weekend, like - at least a dozen times." She looks back down at her pad. "I think it was...yeah, it was Adam that told me about it. He's the one who usually gets the phone."

Ryan rubs the bridge of his nose. He rarely drinks enough to be hungover, so when he does - it hits hard. He's already exhausted, and it's not even five yet. "Okay. Make sure everyone knows what our friendly neighborhood pervert looks like, I want the cops called the second someone spots him. If we want him trespassed, the cops have to actually catch him in the building." He sighs. "And if you hear from Brian, tell him to call me. Time for a conversation."

"Good luck with that," Leah says, with a resigned frown. "We need at least three more people, minimum. Did you hear back from any of those applications you called?"

"Not yet," Ryan says ruefully. Turnover is one of his biggest headaches - he tries to find reliable people, and he's gotten lucky over the last year or so, with people like Leah and Elijah and Maritza - career types like Ryan, who know what they're doing and give a shit. But for positions like the barbacks, the front door people, the table waiters...all Ryan can manage are college kids on their summer vacations, and even that is if he's lucky. "If you know anybody…"

"Right." Leah nods, jotting something down on her pad. "I'll ask around. You know - maybe we should try the Facebook ad again. That's how we found Abby, after all."

"Too expensive," Ryan says, shaking his head. He shuffles the report back into its folder, setting it aside to obsess over later.

"We'll figure it out," Leah says, reassuringly confident. Ryan quirks a smile at her. "Okay, I'm gonna go check on the kitchen. You hungry? They made extra of the special tonight for us."

"Hot wings again?" Ryan asks. Leah grins and nods. A small chunk of her hair is caught in the loop of her eyebrow ring, and she brushes it away mindlessly as Ryan watches. "No thanks. Save them for everyone else."

"Okay," Leah replies with a friendly, professional smile. "Anything else."

"Yeah." Ryan hesitates, just long enough to catch Leah's attention. She raises her eyebrows, curious. "If you get that prank call again...tell them I'm not here."

Leah blinks at him for a second. "Okay," she says again, slower this time. "You think you know who it is?"

"Pretty sure." Ryan shakes his head. "Just say something like, 'Ryan's off for the night.' He'll get spooked and stop, I promise."

"Sure thing, boss. I'll let Adam know." Leah tilts her head at him. "Anything we should be worried about?"

Ryan snorts. "Nah."

"Alright then." Leah drops the subject like it had never been raised. "I'll see you out there, then. Don't forget - tonight's the change order."

"Yeah, yeah," Ryan grumbles, opening his laptop. He only forgot _once,_ for God's sake.

The night flows quickly and easily, especially after one of their part-timers calls them back and agrees to cover the missing shift. Ryan bounces around and helps where he's needed, the hours slipping by before he notices them even arriving. This is why he likes doing what he does - if you're doing it right, you never run out of things to do. You sink into every shift right up to your shoulders, and before you know it you're home, still buzzing with accomplishment. It may not be saving the world, but he's good at it, and he's making money. He can't ask for more than that.

He doesn't usually dwell on the old memories this building carries - the repairs and the remodels in the years since it was The Bait Shop do enough, normally. But tonight he finds himself remembering things he hasn't thought about in awhile - the anniversary party they threw for Sandy and Kirsten. The time he and Marissa had sex in one of the handicapped restrooms, holding the door shut with their hands, stopping every few minutes to laugh at themselves. That awkward double date he and Seth went on, with Alex Kelly and Lindsay...God, _Lindsay._ He hasn't thought about her in years.

It's not enough to distract him, but it is enough to make him swing by Summer's, on his way home. Ever since she went freelance, she's embraced the night owl life, same as he has - he knows she'll be up.

Summer's place is actually her dad's place, technically - she lives there rent-free while he goes on cruises and vacations, enjoying his retirement the way only a rich plastic surgeon can. In return, she does the dirty work of upkeep on a gigantic house with a cascading array of structural problems - water damage in the kitchen, an unusable pool that's been sitting empty since the earthquake, leaky roofs, mice in the garage. It's not the same house Summer grew up in - that one was damaged beyond repair in the earthquake - but it's close enough in size and location that it might as well be. Summer once joked that she grew up in a lifesize Barbie dream house, and Ryan couldn't find the words to disagree.

"Somehow, I knew I'd end up seeing you tonight," Summer says, swinging open the door with some difficulty. It's one of those ridiculous, trendy pivot doors, that make you feel like you're opening the entire wall - but Summer's is even heavier than most. It makes her look like a little kid, whenever she tries to open it, but she hisses and spits at anyone who tries to help her. "And oh, look - gross bar food. How sweet."

"We had extra," Ryan says, offering her the bag.

"It's not hot wings again, is it?" Summer asks, wrinkling her nose.

Ryan flaps a hand at her until she moves out of his way, stepping over the threshold and pushing the door shut, before she can do it first. "No comment."

Summer rolls her eyes, but she's gonna eat it anyway, and they both know it. "You don't have to bring me food every time you see me, you know. It's like you think that's all I do - just eat and yell at people on the internet."

"Isn't that the bulk of what you do though?" Ryan asks skeptically. "I mean, if we're being honest?"

"Shut up," Summer says, hiding a smile. "Come on. I'm watching Top Chef."

Most of the first floor of the house is currently unusable, due to some ongoing carpeting issues that causes Summer to go into rage blackout mode whenever they're mentioned, so she leads him up to the second floor, which is really where she lives. One of the bedrooms is currently a makeshift living room, with a Goodwill couch and her dad's gigantic flatscreen, resting on the floor against the wall. Her dogs leap up and bound over as they enter the room, drawn by Ryan's presence - and the chicken too, probably.

"Down. Down!" Summer frowns sternly, and all three dogs immediately retreat, instantly calmer. Ryan grins; he never gets tired of seeing this. "One at a time, kids. Let's not trample my friends this early in the morning."

"Is it early for you? Because I thought you were on a late night like me," Ryan says. He holds his hands out in invitation, and all three dogs come sniffing over - Summer hasn't gotten hang of the 'one at a time' order yet, clearly. His favorite, a half-blind bulldog named Cleo, edges up against his legs and flops down on his feet, rubbing her chunky face against Ryan's ankles. He laughs, bending down to rub her stomach, as the other two - a yellow lab named Peter Pan and JoJo, the three-legged Beagle - edge around him, jumping over each other and sniffing every piece of him they can get their hands on.

"Down, Peter Pan!" Summer snags the lab's collar, and he instantly retreats. JoJo quickly follows suit, while Cleo just sneezes, still belly up at Ryan's feet. "Sheesh, I said _one at a time._"

"I don't mind," Ryan says, and nudges Cleo off his feet. As he moves over to the couch, all four of them follow - a mismatched parade of dog, dog, girl, dog. "I probably smell pretty interesting." He takes his jacket off, discarding it on the arm of the couch, and sure enough, JoJo and Peter Pan instantly forget about Ryan's presence altogether.

Summer budges up next to him on the couch, dropping the chicken on his lap momentarily as she scoops Cleo up on the cushion between them. "No, I went to bed at like, two, woke up about an hour ago. I've got that Skype interview at three-thirty AM, remember - I told you about that, right?"

"Oh, the people in Ireland?"

"Right." Summer digs into her chicken, not even bothering to warm it up. Ryan watches with amazed fascination at her appetite, as he always does. "No," she says, holding it out of Cleo's reach. "Ryan, control your girlfriend."

Ryan pulls the bulldog over into his own lap, where she instantly flops down, content to be petted. The other two dogs settle watchfully at their feet, clearly waiting for Summer to grant mercy. Summer ignores them. "It's for what job - remind me again - "

"Website coordinator," Summer supplies. "The NGO in Belfast." Now that Ryan's paying attention, she does look like she's fresh from a shower - and more well-rested than she usually looks, on these late nights when he stops by. "It's remote, though - thank God. I wouldn't survive a week in Ireland."

"Too gloomy for you?" Ryan teases.

"Too _cold,_" Summer says with a exaggerated shiver. "I was only at Brown for like, half a year, but even that was _enough._"

Ryan just smiles, sinking back into her couch, which is of course, the most comfortable Goodwill couch in the world. Leave it to Summer to find the gem at the thrift shop. On the TV, a pockmarked man in a white chef's jacket is frozen in pause, caught mid-motion chopping garlic. "I can go home, if you need to get ready," Ryan says, but he's already getting sleepy. There's nothing else like this particular combination of dog, dog, girl, dog to help him to relax.

"That's okay," Summer says, mouth full of chicken. "You wanna talk or something?"

Ryan shrugs. He had, when driving over here. Now, though, what he really wants to do is lay his head on her knee and go to sleep. "I think Seth's been calling the bar."

Summer drops her chicken wing back into the bag, her face alert. "Really?"

"Yeah, like calling and hanging up." Ryan doesn't know _how_ he's so sure, just that he is. "And I'm going to see Trey with my Dad this weekend."

"Jesus, okay," Summer says, shaking her head a little. She pushes the chicken away - wrapping it up so the dogs won't get into it. JoJo and Peter Pan's heads both move in tandem as they follow the movement of her hands with their eyes. "One thing at a time. Did you actually talk to Seth?"

"No, but I'm pretty sure it's him." Ryan rubs Cleo's forehead, listening to her rumble in contentment. "When was the last time you talked to him?"

Summer bites her lip. "Um," she says, "he Facebooked me, maybe, six months ago? He wanted your phone number and I told him no." She looks guilty. "I would've told you, but you were in the middle of that ridiculous thing with your slutty bank robber girlfriend, and I just - "

"She wasn't a _bank robber,_" Ryan interrupts. "She was a tax fraud...er. Tax fraudist? Much less sexy."

"Whatever," Summer says, waving her hand. "Anyway, I didn't actually talk to him, it was just on Messenger. And I just told him no and that was it." She shrugs. "Before that, it was probably...you know. The last time _you_ talked to him."

Ryan's chest gets tight, thinking about it. Standing in the open doorway of the Cohens' house, yelling at the top of their lungs at each other. All the neighbors must have heard it. It was the talk of the town for weeks, probably.

"Marissa probably invited him," Ryan says, with resignation. "That's why he's trying to get ahold of me."

"Sounds like Coop," Summer says, shaking her head. "She probably talked herself into thinking it was a totally normal, not bitchy thing to do, too."

"Christ," Ryan mutters, pushing his head back against the cushions. On the screen, the pockmarked chef has disappeared, defaulting back to the Netflix menu. Are they still watching? "They're not even in town yet, and already look at us."

Summer laughs. "We grew up here too," she says, scooting a little closer, so she can pet Cleo too. "We're not immune to the drama gene either. Didn't think I needed to remind _you,_ Don Juan DeAtwood."

Ryan pinches her leg, making her yelp. Cleo lifts her head at the commotion, sneezes again, then flops right back down again.

"Frank and Julie want to rip off the band-aid," Ryan says. He grins at her, rubbing the spot on her leg and pouting at him. "Quit it - I didn't pinch you that hard."

"Did too," Summer says, settling down at his side again. "Which band-aid? There's like, at least half a dozen in play here."

Ryan snorts. "Any of 'em. All of 'em." He sighs, relaxing back into the cushions. Cleo on his lap, Summer at his shoulder, her damp hair brushing against his chin as she leans down to kiss Cleo's forehead. His eyes droop. "I haven't been to see him, you know. Since the funeral. Not even once."

Summer leans her forehead against his shoulder softly, and doesn't say anything. The TV screen silently goes dark.

"I should go," he mumbles, after a long minute. "You've got an interview."

"Shut up, you idiot," Summer says quietly, kissing the side of his temple. "Just get some rest. I'll wake you up in time to catch the morning news."

Ryan grunts back at her, letting his eyes fall closed. The last thing he hears before he falls asleep is Summer hissing something at the dogs, and the loud crackling of the paper takeout bag. And he dreams, as he always has, every night for the past six years, about Trey.

* * *

His brother was not a good person, which was something that Ryan knew very early on. Even when they were kids, Trey had a layer of rot beneath his smile, and when they were younger he was worse at hiding it. He was a bully - liked to tease Ryan's friends, which is why Ryan never kept any around for very long. He'd kick dogs and laugh. He yelled at their mother until she cried, over and over and over, until she started avoiding him like a battered wife, fear etched across her face whenever she'd hear his heavy footsteps, pounding their way up the front porch.

Ryan wishes he could remember the good things as vividly too, because there were some. He liked strawberries. He bought Ryan books, sometimes - or stole them, whatever - and always seemed pleased when Ryan read them. He had a nice girlfriend once named Amanda, who used to come over and bake cookies with them. Trey standing in the kitchen, grinning, eating cookie dough. That's the memory he wants to plaster over everything else - instead of the smashed in curve of his skull, the twisted wreck of the car. Marissa's face, as she finally told him everything, stammering out the truth in fits and starts. Kevin Volchok, dead-eyed in the hospital, telling him it was a mistake, an accident. He hadn't meant to _kill_ him. Just scare him. That's it.

He doesn't blame Marissa for lying, or Seth for helping her do it. He doesn't even blame Volchok, because he'd probably have done the same thing, if they'd told Ryan what had happened, instead of lying about it. What else do you do, when the girl you love comes to you and says, _this guy tried to rape me._ How else do you react? Volchok didn't have the added baggage of growing up with Trey, sixteen years of memories to drag him down and pull his punches. For him, it was simple. Somebody hurt Marissa, so that somebody had some hurt coming.

Ryan was spared that particular question. Spared by Seth and Marissa, who loved him, and tried to protect him, and took the only option that made sense to them at the time. And he'll never forgive them for it. Not for as long as he lives.

Because this is the thing: it was the part after that he doesn't understand. How they let Ryan keep on loving his brother the same way, welcoming him into his life, getting in deeper and deeper with a person it turned out, he didn't know at all. All those months, Ryan thought he had a brother again, and the whole time - it was just a kindness. A gesture of pity from the two people he trusted more than anyone else. Trey went to his grave thinking he'd gotten away with it, and Ryan - eighteen years old, cocky with confidence in his new, safe, beautiful life - was utterly unprepared, not just for the grief, but for the truth that came out after - the _shift_ that happens, when you discover something terrible about someone you loved, someone you held in your arms as he died. _That's _what he blames them for: they made him vulnerable. Exposed all his nerves, and then sat there and watched as they got slashed to bloody pieces.

The Cohens sent him to therapy, and Marissa moved to Maui, and Ryan just got angrier and angrier and angrier, until that was the only thing he could feel anymore. And it wasn't Seth's fault - not really, not in the real world outside of Ryan's fucked up head - but he just couldn't keep the anger in, and it all just went to shit. Just bloody, bitter shit.

Ryan hasn't talked to Seth in almost six years, and it's been almost three since he saw Sandy and Kirsten. Most days he doesn't think about them, but that's because thinking about them makes him feel so guilty he can't even breathe, so he tries not to do it that often.

Marissa, on the other hand...who even knows. He sees her all the time - they're family now, even if she prefers to ignore it. He's not in love with her, hasn't been in almost a decade - but seeing her is still like poking an open wound. There's phantom pain, and phantom love, too. He hopes she finds it eventually - the happiness she was always chasing, from the day he met her - whether it's with this fiance, or another one, or something completely different - something that hasn't even occurred to her yet. Ryan wants that for her, but that's about all he can do. Anything beyond that is just too much.


	2. Chapter 2

Carina, Marissa's future wife, has dark red hair and thick, pronounced eyebrows. There are freckles on her face and shoulders, and wrists that jingle when she moves, covered in beaded bracelets. She laughs easily, and carries the conversation every single time it lags, when the air gets heavy or somebody says something a little too sharply. She and Marissa can barely keep their hands off each other - touching each other's wrists, playing with locks of hair, rubbing shoulders at the table. Marissa usually looks weighted down with that old resentment, whenever she comes to visit, but tonight, with Carina by her side - she's a totally different person.

"So yeah, rehearsal, ceremony - on the beach, we're hoping - and reception. Nothing fancy, nothing too elaborate. Other than bachelorette parties, maybe, but - who needs all the extra stuff? And who gets the wedding shower when there's two brides, anyway?" Carina grins invitingly. She's been doing that all night - bluntly and obviously bringing up the fact that she and Marissa are both women, as if giving them all permission to joke about it. Rather unnecessary, since this is hardly the first time Marissa's brought home a girl she's marrying, but it's a sweet gesture. Sort of.

"Oh, a beach wedding," Julie says wistfully. On her best behavior tonight, she's even dressed down for once - no flashy makeup or jewelry. She's wearing pants, for God's sake. "That will be lovely - at sunset?"

"We were thinking sunrise, actually," Marissa says. She's cut her hair short since the last time he saw her, a shocking hard bob that ends right at her chin, and Ryan keeps doing double takes. He hopes it's not too obvious. "The reception would be like, a breakfast themed thing. Pancakes and waffles and coffee." She smiles a little, to herself, before her grin sharpens, landing directly on Jimmy. "Dad thinks it's silly."

"You gotta have cake," Jimmy exclaims. Apart from the grey in his hair, he looks pretty much the same. Ocean air, and all that. "You can't eat cake with breakfast, and a wedding reception _needs_ cake."

"IHOP makes birthday cake pancakes," Kaitlin offers.

"The ones with sprinkles!" Jamie chimes in. He swings his legs at his chair, blissfully unaware of the literal iceberg of emotional baggage beneath the dinner table. "You could make a whole cake out of sprinkle pancakes. Or you could make those big fluffy ones - I saw a video on YouTube where they put candles in it."

Carina grins at the little boy, obviously charmed to death, just like everyone else who meets him. Marissa and Jimmy, on the other hand, do their usual 'pretend that awkward existence of a child isn't there' routine. "I love it. We could frost it like it's an actual cake, and not tell anybody until we served it. What do you think, Coop?"

Ryan visibly starts at the nickname. Marissa flashes him a quick glance, and just as quickly, looks away. "Why not?" she says, smiling. Julie smiles along with her, anxiously trying to be as polite and nice as possible. And Ryan and Frank finish their food as quietly as possible, trying not to draw anybody's gaze.

The rest of the dinner goes like that. Bloodshed: minimum. Awkwardness: manageable. Ryan catches Julie desperately chugging a glass of wine in the kitchen, and Frank noticeably does not say a single word to Jimmy the entire night, but at least nobody gets pushed in the pool.

Kaitlin, on the other hand, gets up and leaves without a single word the second she's finished eating. She's been plastic-wrapped pleasant all night, her smiles stretched wide and brittle across her face. Jimmy visibly deflates the second she leaves, looking helplessly over at Julie, who is too busy keeping her own smile up to notice.

"Tired, probably," Frankie says, probably only the third or fourth sentence he's uttered all night. He looks over at Jamie, who's drooping a little as well. "_Somebody_ stayed up until two o'clock last night playing Mario Kart, and I don't think it was me or Julie."

"It was me," Ryan chimes in, just to get a few easy laughs. Carina doesn't disappoint, and neither does Julie. "Sorry, Dad. I was really close to winning the - the thing, the coin. The coin chest."

"You're _hopeless,_" Jamie pronounces, in his haughtiest voice. Even Marissa laughs at that one.

"You live here?" Carina asks, not quite completely in on the joke.

"No, no," Julie says, chuckling. "Ryan owns Oryx & Crake, down by the pier, and he has an apartment next door. It's a bar," she adds needlessly, smiling at Marissa, "Marissa knows it well. It was called The Bait Shop, when the kids were in high school."

"Still can't believe you bought that place," Marissa says quietly. She never quite makes eye contact with Ryan, but at least she hides it well. "How's business, anyway?"

"Good," Ryan says honestly. He can't really talk; he's not making eye contact either. "We're doing well. Expanding the kitchen menu's helped a lot."

"That name sounds so familiar," Carina says, tapping her chin. "Oryx & Crake - where's that come from?"

"Margaret Atwood, right?" Jimmy asks. He snaps his fingers. "I read that book. I think."

"Summer picked it," Ryan says with a shrug.

Marissa snorts, a startling sound. "Summer reads Margaret Atwood?"

Julie's smile slips, ever so slightly. Marissa quickly picks up her wine glass and hides her face in it.

"She went through a phase," Ryan says delicately. He picks up his own drink, carefully not looking at anybody. "She travels a lot for work. Reads all the time - much more than I do." Why is he still talking about this, he thinks.

"Who's Summer again?" Carina asks. She touches Marissa's wrist softly and pulls her hand beneath the table - clearly sensing the tension.

"She's Ryan's girlfriend," Marissa says.

"What?" Ryan says, startled into sharpness. He flinches when the whole table looks at him. "No she's not."

"I mean, we were all friends, when we were kids, and Summer and I used to be really close," Marissa continues, as if Ryan hadn't even spoken. "Honestly, Ryan, it's okay. It's not like everybody doesn't already know."

"Uh," Ryan says, feeling like he's been very suddenly thrown into an alternate universe. "We're not dating."

Julie's frowning a little, beneath her smile, but Frank's just grinning into his wine glass, clearly smothering a laugh. But Jamie looks almost crushed. "Did you break up?"

"_What?_" Ryan says again. The laughter's spread to the rest of the table - even Jimmy is chuckling to himself. "No, kiddo, it's - we're not - "

"Why did you break up with Summer? I _liked_ Summer," Jamie asks plaintively.

"I didn't," Ryan says helplessly, and Julie cuts in.

"Nobody broke up with Summer, baby," she says. She shoots Ryan a warning look, as if daring him to contradict. "Did you clean your plate? Awesome. You can go, if you want."

"Really?" Jamie looks torn between staying at the table to look sad at Ryan some more, and running off to his computer room. Ryan rubs his forehead with one hand. Marissa is hiding a smile against one hand, and Carina is grinning at him openly.

"Take your plate to the kitchen and go play your game while you can," Frank says sternly, "bed time's at eight tonight. You've got school in the morning."

Jamie doesn't waste any time, practically bolting from the table. Julie winces as the clatter of the plate being thrown into the sink echoes out into the patio from the kitchen. "He won't even make it to seven-thirty," she predicts, shaking her head. "They stayed up way later than two."

"Has Kait been staying here?" Jimmy asks, his face still drawn with concern. "I thought she was living in Laguna Hills?"

"She ah," Julie says, "got evicted."

Marissa snorts again. Carina leans in slightly, pressing their shoulders together.

"So she's staying with us for a while, yes," Julie says neutrally. "Her job is going well, though. She got promoted to production assistant, Jimmy - did she tell you?"

Jimmy just nods, eyes on the wall behind them. There are pictures crammed into the edges of a framed mirror - snapshots that Kaitlin takes with her fancy, hipster Polaroid. Ryan follows his gaze and sees the pictures anew, through a different perspective - most of them are of Jamie, but there are quite a few of the rest of them, scattered along the frame. Kait and Summer, making fish faces with their cheeks pressed together. A shot of Ryan, scowling at the camera from a lawn chair. Jamie in his tux for the Charity Auction. Frank dipping Julie for a kiss in the backyard, the end of her ponytail dangling dangerously close to the barbecue grill.

It's one thing to go on living your life without somebody in it all the time, but you forget until you're reminded. Ryan's sure he would feel the same way if he were sitting in _their_ house, surrounded by pictures of all the time they went on living without him.

"Wow - on something I'd know?" Carina asks. It's starting to become more glaring, how little she knows about them.

"Probably not, it's a fairly small company," Julie says. "They do local commercials, internal corporate videos, that sort of thing. But it's a foot in the door to be sure."

"Oh, definitely," Carina says.

The awkwardness that's been hovering over them all night finally descends, vulnerable as they are now without Kaitlin and Jamie. Ryan makes eye contact with his father, who rolls his eyes quickly and then buries his face back in his wine glass.

Marissa extracts herself from Carina. "Bathroom," she mutters, smiling tensely at Julie before slipping back into the depths of the house. Ryan glances at Julie, still tightly smiling down at the table, and quietly rises to his feet as well.

"I'll get the plates," he says, picking up Marissa's abandoned soup bowl. Carina startles, and starts to help. "It's okay - don't worry about it - "

"Please. I'm the guest, of course I'm helping," Carina says, gathering up an armful, clearly intent on following him into the kitchen. Ryan can't think of a way to convince her otherwise, so he lets her. They leave the parents to their stilted conversation, and if Ryan's not mistaken, Carina breathes a sigh of relief too, the moment the door swings shut behind them.

She doesn't mention it. "So," she says, carefully piling her load of plates into the sink, "did I pass?"

"Pass what?" Ryan asks, stupidly.

"You know," Carina says, smiling ruefully. "Pass. Marissa told me the last fiance didn't even make it to the family dinner."

Ryan snorts, unloading his own armful. "Jury's out on that one. But I'm not so sure our test should mean anything to you," he says ruefully.

"It does, though," Carina says, her eyes wide and earnest. She blinks, and the moment passes, the air turning awkward again. "You can go talk to her, you know. I won't get jealous."

The thought honestly hadn't occurred to Ryan. "Did she go out for a cigarette?"

"Probably," Carina says. Her smiles, for what it's worth, do seem genuine. Much more than any of theirs must seem to her, probably. "Seriously, it's okay. I can cover for you with your mom, if you want."

Every muscle in Ryan's body flinches, at Julie being referred to as his mother, but she's...technically correct. Plus, he's trying to be nice. "You know Marissa and I aren't really…"

"Siblings? Yes," Carina says, tilting her head curiously. "She told me most of the dirty details. Must be weird - your dad marrying your ex's mom."

"It was at first. But you get used to it." Ryan finds himself liking her, the way he likes the people he meets at work - fleeting glimpses of people's personalities, revealed unintentionally in vulnerable moments. "I don't know that we have anything to talk about, though."

Carina scoffs. "Now I know you know _that's_ bullshit," she says, cocking her head. "Go on, just get it over with."

"Everyone seems to be telling me that lately," Ryan complains.

"Sounds like you've got smart friends," Carina says with another disarming smile. "Everyone needs those."

She does, Ryan thinks, have a point.

* * *

He finds Marissa in the driveway, blowing smoke rings at Julie's mailbox. He joins her at the edge of the concrete, silently pulling his own crumpled pack of Marlboros out of his back pocket. He's been trying to quit again, so it's been a month or so since he had one. The first drag is like a punch to the throat.

"This feels...familiar," Marissa says finally. She still hasn't looked over at him. "Ask me who I am - go on. It's my turn to give the line."

Ryan shoots her a dry look. "Never been into roleplay, thanks."

"Yeah, I remember," Marissa says, with a short laugh. For a second, Ryan almost laughs with her. He forgets what she's like when she's not around - how sharp she is, noticing everything, her eyes always open. Her razor-edged sense of humor that's only gotten more deadly in the years since they first met. "So - what's the verdict? Is Julie about to write her a blank check, tell her all my dirty secrets so she'll dump me right here and now?"

"I kind of thought she already knew your dirty secrets," Ryan says neutrally. "You don't usually hang onto them for very long."

Marissa flinches, just a barely visible twitch. She inhales to cover it, but Ryan's already noticed. "Right."

Ryan lets the silence sit, for just a moment. "Summer and I aren't seeing each other," he says. Marissa shrugs, the look on her face turning momentarily bitter. "Is that why you - all this time? You thought we were…"

"Well if you aren't officially, then one of you is lying to yourself," Marissa says sharply. She inhales again and blows the smoke out through her nose, a practiced, anxious motion. "And no offense, but Summer's usually a little smarter about these kinds of things."

"So you really thought," Ryan marvels, "that I just ran off and shacked up with your best friend. After everything that went down."

"You were angry enough," Marissa says. She finally turns to meet his eyes, and immediately her expression falters, her face melting into exasperation. "Oh, Christ, Ryan. I don't wanna fight. I made a promise to myself I wouldn't start a fight tonight. Can we not do this?"

"You can't have thought - for _six years?_" Ryan pushes, still stuck on the idea. The fact that Julie and Frank probably thought something similar - maybe not all this time, but recently - is less surprising. But he'd thought Marissa, at least, wouldn't have assumed so much for so long. "Why didn't I bring her to anything - move in with her, buy her a ring - I mean, almost a _decade_ \- "

"It's none of my business, and it still isn't," Marissa says firmly, stamping out her cigarette.

Ryan just feels a little sick. Another shift - every time he sees these people, he gets another one. "Is that why you're not close anymore? Because of me?"

Marissa closes her eyes briefly, and when she opens them, she looks older. Not at all like the girl Ryan once chased, over and over and over until they both lost their balance. "No. We're not close anymore because I couldn't stand to stay friends with anyone who knew me back then." Her chin trembles, but her voice doesn't. "I did it on purpose, for myself, Ryan. It's not your fault."

An invisible weight lifts, and Ryan remembers that he's smoking a cigarette. The second drag is just as bad.

"I invited Seth to the wedding," Marissa says. She shakes her head. "You probably already knew that."

"I had an inkling," Ryan says.

"I just thought - it's time to grow up, that's all. Move on, be healthy, rattle our chakras and shake out our baggage - whatever. Stupid, probably." Marissa turns, pausing briefly at his shoulder. Reaching out slowly, telegraphing her movement so he knows she's coming, she takes his hand. Squeezes it once, like she used to when they'd be standing in a crowd, and she'd feel him start to tense up. Letting him know she's there, that she knows how he feels, and that she's got his back. "I'll tell him not to come if you want. But I don't think you're going to ask me to do that."

Ryan swallows thickly, and squeezes her hand back. Then he slides it out of her grip, and takes a very large step backwards. "I'm really not dating Summer," he insists, needing very badly to get this point across, for some reason. "We're friends, close friends, but that's it."

Marissa rolls her eyes at him, plucking the cigarette right out of his hand. "Let me have that, if you're just gonna hold it," she says. "Like I said, it's none of my business."

"She wouldn't give the time of day to a guy like me," Ryan blurts. Then he stops short, surprised by himself. He has no idea where the fuck a thought like that came from.

Marissa's answering smile is kind, and a little condescending. "I thought the same thing about Carina," she says. "But whataya know? Miracles happen."

* * *

Trey is buried in San Bernardino. It was Dawn's decision - her hometown. Not that she lives there now, or has stepped foot in it more than twice in the past twenty years. But she insisted, and so they did it, and it ended up feeling like they were just...putting him away somewhere, out of sight and out of the way. They might as well have cremated him, and left him in a cupboard.

Frank shows up at the bar early, with coffee. "I forgot how you like it," he says, handing Ryan two cups: one with an Americano, and the other full of packets of brown sugar and half and half.

Ryan's already sucked down half a pot this morning, but he decides not to mention it. "Thanks, Dad."

"Is this new?" Frank wanders over to the row of photographs, framed on the wall above the benches Ryan's installed for customers waiting on a table. "Wow, is this...Chino?"

"Yeah. Kait took them a while back, but she just now finished them for me." Kaitlin doesn't make a habit of dating seriously, but when she does she usually picks shitty people who cheat on her, which is a habit Ryan would really like her to break. At any rate, the last time it happened, he and Summer spent a lot of time dragging her out of her apartment and distracting her with whatever random activities they could come up with. A trip to Ryan's old haunts worked pretty well, and Kait took a bunch of photos, which she then developed into artsy, black and white prints for the bar. "They're pretty good, huh?"

"Yeah." Frank's standing in front of the photograph of Ryan's old elementary school, which Kait has managed to photograph in a way that it seems interesting and mysterious, instead of a run-down government building with mismatched paint. Kaitlin has a way of making mundane things look beautiful. Ryan wishes she'd give up on her TV dreams and just go with the photography thing, since she's so talented, but - well, it's not what she wants. "I don't think you ever told me why you changed your mind - about the bar's name."

Ryan shrugs. "I guess I didn't want to rub it in my own face."

"Rub _what_ in your own face?" Frank asks, sounding almost offended. "You're ashamed of where you come from?"

"No," Ryan says, rolling his eyes. "Naming a bar after the _nickname_ people had for me would be rubbing it on my own face. Nobody was exactly using it as a compliment, Dad." Summer hasn't called him 'Chino' in years. Once, she even apologized for being the main reason the nickname caught on, when she was drunk. Ryan forgave her easily, since he wasn't exactly innocent on the shittalking front.

Frank deflates a little, turning back around to the pictures. Next to the elementary school is a photograph of the park where he and Trey used to play basketball. Kait and Ryan had been there on a Monday morning, when it was completely empty, and the small cement court looks much bigger than it ever did in real life. A vast, empty plain of concrete, with a basketball hoop standing guard at its entrance. "So you just...put pictures up on the walls instead?"

"They're okay with it when it's just aesthetic," Ryan says. "You know - local color."

Frank shakes his head. "Sometimes," he says, "I have no idea what the fuck we're doing here."

Ryan clasps his shoulder. "Tell me about it," he says. He tugs on Frank's shoulder, antsy to change the subject. Like he hadn't been antsy enough already, this morning. "Come on - we should get on the road."

"You wanna drive?" Frank offers. He tears his eyes away from the photographs.

"Do you mind?"

"Nah." Frank grins. "You're the boss."

"That's what they tell me," Ryan says wryly.

The drive is surprisingly pleasant - it doesn't feel like they're going to a cemetery. Frank has a way of making you feel like whatever you're doing just isn't that big of a deal - even when it is. Or maybe especially when it is. That's probably why he and Julie work so well - they balance each other out like that.

"So let me ask you something," Ryan says, about twenty minutes out.

Frank rolls his head lazily on the headrest to look at him. "No, we didn't really think you were dating Summer."

Ryan blanches. "Then why didn't you say anything at dinner?"

"Oh, would that have made it better? Your old man jumping in to talk about how single you are?" Frank snorts. "Trust me. You didn't want me to do that."

Ryan concedes the point. "But you think _something's_ going on."

"Do _you_ think something's going on?"

"No!" Ryan tightens his grip on the steering wheel. He hasn't talked to Summer since the dinner, despite her numerous texts asking how it went. He hasn't even asked her how her interview went, which has been pulling at him for days now - guilty wondering, an instinctive urge to talk to her, to know what's going on in her life. "We're friends."

Frank is quiet for a long, long moment. "Is now a good time for me to give you my speech? Because I have a speech."

"Christ in heaven," Ryan says, "I hate your speeches."

"I know, but I can't help it," Frank says, unapologetic. He takes his sunglasses off - for dramatic effect, Ryan assumes. "Ryan. Son. If you keep fucking around, you're going to end up like your Uncle Harry."

"_Jesus,_" Ryan says, blowing out an angry breath. "That's pretty fucking harsh, Dad."

"It's true." Frank shrugs. "You're wasting your time. Dating bank robbers, married women, college girls looking for a thrill - I don't know what it is you think you're doing, but - "

"She committed _tax fraud,_ not - and only one of them was married!" Ryan winces, at his own defensiveness. "It's none of your business, anyway."

"That's exactly what Harry used to say," Frank says, merciless. He pins Ryan in place with a weedy stare. "Life doesn't go on forever, son. Happiness doesn't just fall in your lap - you have to chase it. And if you wait too long, she's going to find it somewhere else, and you're gonna end up chatting up teenagers when you're sixty. Cheating people in poker for beer money, wearing Hawaiian shirts in public." Frank grimaces. "_Golfing_."

"You shut your mouth," Ryan says. "I swear to you right now, I will kill myself before I go golfing ever again. And that's a promise."

Frank smirks. "I'll hold you to that."

Ryan settles into a disgruntled silence, thinking of the last time he'd seen Uncle Harry. He'd flirted all night with Kaitlin, blithely ignoring Frank's increasingly pissed off commands to cut it out. Julie finally kicked him out when he invited Kait to come over and try out the hot tub at his apartment complex, right there at the dinner table in front of everybody.

He tries to picture himself at sixty, having grown into the type of old man that wears Hawaiian shirts - having dinner at Frank and Julie's and hitting on Jamie's girlfriends. Ryan shudders again. He really would off himself first.

"You're assuming a lot of things about me and Summer," he says, unable to help himself. "She probably doesn't want anything to do with me."

Frank just laughs, tipping his head back against the seat.

"Oh, shut up," Ryan says irritably, raising his voice to be heard over Frank's guffawing. "You're such an asshole."

"The way she was staring at you a couple weeks ago," Frank says, "when we went to the beach, and you took off your shirt? Yeah. Totally disgusted by you."

Ryan clears his throat, feeling his own face flush, embarrassingly. "It's really weird that you noticed that, just saying."

"I notice a lot of things," Frank says, unbothered, and slides his sunglasses back on.

* * *

They stop at a gas station and pick up a six pack of clamato beer, on Ryan's insistence. Trey loved that shit, but he'd never admit it - he always blamed it on his girlfriends, when someone would make fun of him for having it in the fridge.

"Disgusting," Frank says, shaking his head as he arranges it in a spot of honor next to the headstone. The area around it is tidy, but a bit neglected - not as bad as some of the older graves to be sure, but not nearly as well taken care of as some others. "Kid had piss poor taste in everything. Even your mom thought so."

"Better than flowers," Ryan says, with a shrug. He can't stop staring at the inscription. He doesn't remember who was making all these kinds of decisions, and at the time, he wasn't exactly paying close attention. It's miracle he managed to make it through the funeral at all.

_Trey Malcolm Atwood  
1984 - 2007  
How many years have we waited for a ship that never set sail?_

"Fuck," Ryan says, under his breath. Frank stands back up and carefully slides his hand around Ryan's shoulders, pulling him in close. "That's from that fucking song."

"Your mom picked it," Frank says. They stand there in silence for a few moments, staring together at the headstone. There's another family in the graveyard, talking quietly at another headstone a few hundred feet away. One of the women in the group is crying, the sound drifting to them gently on the crests of the wind.

It's both easier and harder than he'd expected it to be, all at the same time. Ryan stares at his brother's name until the letters blur, and then he turns away, pulling out from Frank's grip with a jerk of his shoulders. Frank lets him go, clearly lost in his own heavy moment as well.

The thing that still gets to him now is that he doesn't know how much of it was real. Trey bought him a car for his graduation - did he really mean it? Or was it just guilt? Did he steal the money for it, or earn it honestly like he claimed? If Ryan had known what had happened with Marissa - would Trey have admitted it, or denied everything?

And who would Ryan have believed? His brother, who fucked up constantly but loved him fiercely, in his own way - or Marissa and Seth, who loved him just as much, but smothered him with their own problems until Ryan lost all sense of himself? Two families, two worlds. To this day, he's still not sure which one he would have picked. Maybe that's part of why he feels so guilty.

"I always feel like I should talk to him, but - there's nothing I can say, is there?" Frank turns and joins Ryan a few feet away, leaving Trey's headstone at their backs. "You alright?"

"Yeah. No." Ryan shrugs, rubbing his eyes. "You know."

"Yeah." Frank puts his hand back on Ryan's shoulder, heavy and comforting. "Let's sit down, yeah? We can talk if you want. Or not."

Ryan lets himself be led over to the row of benches, helpfully installed along the driveway. It's a nice cemetery - nothing like the rundown, sad little graveyards Ryan remembers drinking in as a kid - lots of shade, places to sit. A little pond, near the northwest corner. The kind of place anyone would want their child to spend eternity in - that's probably why Dawn chose it.

Maybe the fact that it's so far away was the point, Ryan realizes.

"Marissa came with us last time, you know," Frank says, keeping his hand on Ryan's shoulder as they sit. "You didn't want to come. Remember, she was in town for Kait's birthday? We came up here that Sunday."

Ryan leans his elbows on his knees, angling his gaze at the ground. "She told me she forgave him a long time ago. She's always been…" graceful, Ryan finishes the sentence in his head. Too nice for her own good, capable of way too much kindness to just keep it to herself. Despite all the back and forth - that's why he always fell back in love with her, over and over again.

"Yeah. Julie comes with me from time to time. She's been real good about it - she even came by herself a few times, when I was sick or whatever. She wanted to make sure the grass was being cut properly." He laughs a little to himself. "A weird thing to care about, in my opinion, but she thinks it's important."

Ryan thinks there could be no better example of the strength of their marriage - that Julie Cooper will drive an hour on the freeway to cut the grass for Ryan's dead, ex-con brother. Like Marissa had said - miracles happen. "That's nice."

"Sandy and Kirsten visited once too," Frank says carefully. "They called, asked if it'd be okay with me. They were in the area for some reason."

Ryan breathes in and out slowly, focusing on the bark of a nearby tree. The anger always has a taste - a sour note in the back of his throat. He's learned how to manage it now, but it never goes away completely.

"Sandy emailed me too, the other day," Frank continues, watching him carefully. "They'd like to come to the wedding, but only if you want them there. They don't want to make you uncomfortable."

"They can come," Ryan says quickly. "I'm not - this isn't like, a breakup, where you have to ask me for permission. It's Marissa's wedding, she can invite whoever she wants."

"Oh, get real, Ryan," Frank says, not unkindly. "Of course they need your permission."

Ryan rolls over a few different responses in his head, before settling on the one he really wants to say. "How did you feel, when you found out that I was living with them? I mean, getting out of jail, seeing me play happy family with some other kid's parents - it couldn't have been easy."

"It wasn't," Frank says hoarsely. "But I - Ryan, I was so grateful, too. That you'd spent all that time being taken care of, with people who loved you. You have no idea how grateful I was."

His gaze drifts back over to Trey's headstone. The second part of that sentence goes unsaid. Ryan feels sick, looking at his face.

"It wasn't their fault," Ryan says. There are years of words, building up in his throat, choking his voice so that it comes out thinly, strangled with all that he's tried so hard to hold back. "None of it - not Trey, not me. It's me - I'm the reason we don't talk. _I_ couldn't do it. All they did was try to help me."

Frank's face is creased in sympathy and pain, head hanging low. He leans in, pressing his shoulder against Ryan's arm silently.

"It was so hard, Dad," Ryan confesses, for the first time. He's not sure he's ever said those words out loud - to anyone. Not even Summer. "Trying to fit in, be the kind of person who deserved to be a part of their family. I knew the only reason they let me stay was because Seth liked me - at first, anyway. I mean, of course they loved me, but that came later. But at first - it was because of Seth." Ryan's breath feels sharp, the memories hard-edged and painful. "He was so lonely when I first met him. All he wanted was someone to talk to, to be his friend. And it felt like that's why they took me in - for him."

Frank makes a choked-off noise, and he covers his mouth with one hand, like he'd started to say something and then changed his mind. Ryan ignores it.

"So I did all these things, to try and be...that person," Ryan says helplessly. Each word feels like a weight sliding off his chest, a pile of stones being lifted away, one by one. "I pretended to like things that I didn't, I dated girls that I thought would...fit somehow, I changed my habits, the way I talked, what I ate - everything. And I didn't even _realize_ it at the time, that that's what I was doing. But when Trey died - " Ryan pauses to swallow. "I just sort of...saw it for the first time. I stepped outside my own head, for just a second, and really _looked,_ and it was just fucking absurd. You know? Everytime Seth called me his brother, I wanted to…" Ryan cringes in shame. "I _had_ a brother, and he was dead, and there I was sitting in that big house, eating their food, wearing their clothes like they'd always been mine. It made me so fucking angry."

"You were grieving," Frank says. "It's complicated, Ryan. It makes you feel things, think things that you wouldn't, normally."

"But I meant them," Ryan insists. "And it wasn't their fault, which is why it was so fucking unbearable. Because I was so mad at them, but I couldn't actually - they didn't _deserve_ it. They never asked me to do any of that, to change anything about who I was - I did it to myself."

Frank clasps Ryan's shoulder again, visibly struggling for words. "You were a kid," he finally settles on. "You were just trying to...cope. That's all, Ryan."

"And that makes it okay?" Ryan demands. "All that pain I caused them?"

"If they love you," Frank says firmly, shaking his head, "_really_ love you - and I think they do - they don't care. They don't. All they want is for you to be happy and healthy - and I bet they even understand why, at least on some level. They're not stupid people, Ryan. They've stayed away because they know it's what you needed."

"I love them too," Ryan confesses quietly. "I think about them a lot. But I don't - " he rubs both palms over his face, pressing his knuckles into his eyelids until he sees stars. "I don't know that I can handle being their _son._ And it makes me feel like an ungrateful piece of shit, because all they ever wanted was to take care of me."

"Sometimes," Frank says quietly, "taking care of someone means leaving them alone."

Ryan falls back into silence, thinking inevitably about Dawn. He's more than positive that Frank's thinking about her, too.

"Tell Sandy to come," Ryan says, after a long moment. The other family has started to leave, meandering across the graveyard towards their car, parked a few feet behind Ryan's. One of the teenagers trails a few feet behind his family, kicking at weeds with his shoe, his hands shoved deeply into his pockets. He looks sort of like Seth - tall and lanky, curly dark hair. Ryan's heart aches. "Tell them it's okay with me. It's been years, for fuck's sake - if I don't get over myself now, when will I?"

"Okay," Frank says, squeezing Ryan's shoulder one last time before pulling his hand away. Ryan finds himself missing the weight, once it's gone. "Marissa will be happy."

"She should've been a therapist," Ryan says, only halfway joking. It's not the first time the thought's occurred to him, though he has no doubt that she'd laugh in his face if he ever suggested it to her. "How come she never invited them to her other weddings?"

"I don't think she got this far, with the other ones," Frank says thoughtfully. "That's a good sign, I think."

"Yeah." Ryan looks back over at Trey's headstone. Plain-colored granite, in a sea of white marble. His dumb, sad, heavy metal lyric, in a graveyard full of Bible verses. Maybe Dawn did know what she was doing after all. "Should we open one of the beers? Toast him, or something?"

"Nah," Frank says, smiling to himself. "Let him have it."


End file.
